


Pale Little Spider.

by DitescoMori



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Analysis, F/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:43:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DitescoMori/pseuds/DitescoMori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know about you and her,” and this she says in the tongue foreign to them both, and he knows precisely the motive behind the change of language. In the Red Room, there is an implicit, self-taught principle that marks belong to a tier below the executioner, someone never worth addressing on equal footing. It is something that ignites the blood of the Winter Soldier, and a moment's worth of hesitation is the only thing that prevents him from clasping his metal arm around the small girl’s throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pale Little Spider.

Not until her back hits the floor, and the sound ricochets off the walls in an augmented echo, does he realize he has been containing his breath.

There had always been trouble in her technique. Avowed to the flame of her hair, homage to the fire of her soul and the quickness of her tongue in her retorts, there was always haste in her movements. She threw the bones of her hips too forward too fast, and agile and nimble fingers were haste to grasp the ends of everything (the cool handle of a knife, the solid holster of a gun, the childish and purposeful evading of her fingers grazing his, and oh, that smile that lingered with the deed), with the impatience only known to teenagers and for the most part corrected with time and diligence. Each time, he sought to correct the mistake, but with time he learned to shape it so it became an advantage, and then she became the agilest of the Widows, second only to her own shadow.

The room is rent with whispers, some of worry, most of surprise. They never expected her to fail. She misses her step, and he can hear the small bones of her ankle break from across the room. Only he is privy to the soft whimper that eludes her lips, the effort as she tries to hold back the tears: not of pain, but of disappointment with herself. Brave, young, Natalia. Who would rather choke back her tears before giving anyone else the pleasure of knowing her weak; who would rather spend nights confined to herself rehearsing ballet steps with the credence that it was something she lived for, until her feet bleed, so she could never face the backslash of her instructors; brave, young, Natalia, who knew her physical training like the back of her hand; every step, seeded as a false lie from the Red Room or not, mastered through the sweat, blood and tears of her teenage years.

The silent agreement that follows is all they need to confirm she will not be coming to the mission with him, the serenade of feet shuffling on the floor filling the room as the preparations start being arranged. A two man job, he is supposed to offer cover from the old, abandoned clock tower from across the Embassy as the Widow tangles her web around the diplomat to get access to the files in his office. It would be his third mission with Natalia, who finds the same amount of remorse in claiming a man’s life, than stealing a kiss away from his lips when the guards have left and the lights are dim enough. Another mission he could conquer against fear, where they would challenge in the secret interlocution only they know and master, choosing to make the omnipresent eye of the Red Room a blind and distant threat.

They choose the young, pale spider to take her place, and when he looks at her, her back against the wall, full of dominion and triumph, it all makes sense to him. Four weeks of training were not spent in vain. He now knows Natalia did not miss by accident. His eyes are drawn back to the room, now full with the clutter of conversation of men of science, and he sees a lose bolt from the loop of the barrister that Natalia’s hands missed. It is not that her fingers did not reach it in it time, he knows. The ring fell from the bar, causing her weight to succumb to gravity’s pull.

“Ne smotri tak mrachno, soldat. YA obeshchayu, chto sdelayet vashe vremya stoit," _‘Don’t look so grim, soldier. I promise I will make your time worthwhile’,_ He hears in her the same tone of all the Widows: that dulcet and siren song that is meant to drive men crazy. The only thing that changes in him are the wrinkles of his forehead as they deepen with the spoken cynism.

“Vash naglost’ ne ostanutsya beznakazannymi, Yelena,” _Your insolence will not go unpunished, Yelena_. He counterattacks, looming over her and blocking her path. The girl’s slim shoulders rise and fall with indifference, the small smirk at her lips never leaving her.

"Eto ne zavisit ot vas,” _‘That is not up to you’_ , Is her answer, as she conquers the only height difference that misplaces them both by stretching the small bones of her delicate feet upwards. With a hand upon his shoulder, he hauls the needed support, the flesh of her lips incidentally brushing the cartilage of his ear as she whispers, “I know about you and her,” and this she says in the language foreign to them both, and he knows precisely the motive behind the change of language. In the Red Room, there is an implicit, self-taught principle that marks belong to a tier below the executioner, someone never worth addressing on equal footing. It is something that ignites the blood of the Winter Soldier, and a moment's worth of hesitation is the only thing that prevents him from clasping his metal arm around the small girl’s throat. She is no foreign to the rage in his eyes and takes her time in adding the last words, her body already turning and heading for the door, “You better not miss, _soldat_.”


End file.
